Non Compos Mentis
by Euregatto
Summary: It's a very, very sick way to live in an even sicker, sicker world. – Annie centric, Annie/Eren


**A/N**: Decided to bring back a style I used a little while back. Will you please take the time to review and let me know how it turned out? Thank you~

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**non compos mentis**

by:** Euregatto**

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___**adj** - _of unsound mind

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Sometimes we can't have what we want – we cannot always fulfill an ornate desire with expert fingers, nor can we quench our thirst for an effigy we luridly crave, no matter how intense the heat of friction becomes – so we take what we can get and try to fill in the gaps as we go along (and for her, she can only paste the fragments of her life together with the passionate cries she emits only, _only_, for what completes her).

It's a very, very sick way to live in an even sicker, sicker world.

She adapts to the way a trainee she meets (he has these verdant eyes that pierce deep, _deep_, into the contours of her appetent soul) by allowing her core, primal, unjustified desires claw up to the surface of her brain. It takes some matches against him before she can judge what, exactly, he is best at using. And she decides then, on some arbitrary spring night, that the only way to draw a factual conclusion is to work him up beyond his limits.

_(Let him pant above her as she squirms beneath his mass, moan as he sheds their clothes, gasp as he kisses her mouth and his hands travel south) _

Her muted ability to think properly in his presence is what has her despondently mewling underneath him as he buries his fingers into the heat between her thighs, stroking her in all the right places – _the nerve this bastard had to actually work any other emotions out of her, other than humiliating **pleasure**_ – kissing every notch of her spine.

She feels ashamed of what they do in the confines of his bed when no one else is there to see (the walls are permanently marked with blunt strokes of her nails, and the sheets smell less like his spicy order and more like the innocence she so vehemently surrendered to him). Her knuckles swell pallidly when she's clutched the sheets too hard for too long, so desperately, _desperately_ seeking her release from this harrowing bliss.

It's a very, very sick way to live in an even sicker, sicker world beneath a gray, _gray_ sky and against the coldest, _coldest_ ground.

She wants to be a normal girl, a normal someone with a normal goal and a normal name. She doesn't want him to fulfill her fain desires with calloused strokes of his hand against the apex of her torrid womanhood, nor does she want him to quench her thirst for his divine touch. But he is selfishly, _selflessly_, giving it to her, (railing his reminder into every convulsing muscle deep within her slick warmth), and she is resentfully accepting it.

_ "Annie –"_

_"Please," _she pleads, reaching back to work at her swollen clit, (the fire in her torso is ascending into her face through her chest, and she can feel that she is close to an unbridled ecstasy coupled with malicious shame), _"I need this."_

His adumbral bangs brush the exposed plain of her skin as he leans down to leave several bruises of ownership along her arced back. His fingers retreat so suddenly she whimpers at the loss of contact, but he fills her up with something new, something foreign, something vivaciously painful. She started this covetous rendezvous, but now she just wants him to end it (put an end to this erroneous act so she can curl up in a dark corner somewhere and cry, _cry_, herself to sleep for the fourth time this month), and judging by the eagerness of his rocking hips and the way he tugs her sunlit locks, firm but not hard, he's more than willing to oblige.

At some point she forgets to muffle her own intensifying gasps of his name, shouts choked by the desolate sobs in the collapsing muscles of her neck, supporting hand curling against the headboard and nails biting into the battered, tortured, cerise wood. He moves against her so, so, right and she thinks – _believes, _with every ounce of her ecstatic body – she should snap his neck for delving into her with such pleasure, desire, malice, **sorrow**. _For being so much with every climacteric thrust, every dire heartbeat._

_(And she's close to her release; her muscles have all but wound into coils along the ridges of her thighs and plane of her lower torso)_

She feels so very, very sickened by this sick, _sick_, world and the perfect, _perfect_, way he caresses her just how she likes –

Her cry resounds through the empty cabin, filling the brim of the quiet with her gasps, and tears that have gone unnoticed and left their marks on her porcelain face and in his crumpled sheets. It takes only half a minute before she realizes the exact extent of her damage to them both, anatomically; psychologically _(like a storm of guilt is parading around her world, stabbing at her brain with sharpened spears of reality)._

Her knees let her fold down in defeat, rebuffing the lingering pleasure between her hips, and she's struggling to breathe passed the closing of her throat as she sobs and whispers her contrite apologies. He eases out of her gently, benevolently, lapping at the hickeys defining her spine. "It's alright," he tells her quietly, soothingly brushing bangs from her face, drawing her flush against him. "It's alright…"

And she hopes she's alright, because she has to be if she plans on surviving any longer in a sick, _sick_ world beneath a gray, _gray_ sky enclosed by his warm, _warm_ arms –


End file.
